


Garden Raiding

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bunny Boy, Clothed Sex, Erotic Pastiche of Peter Rabbit, M/M, Minotaur - Freeform, Non-Penetrative Sex, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 06:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: A bunny bites off more than he can chew when raiding a Dzemael greenhouse garden.





	Garden Raiding

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely nothing to say in my own defense.

Once upon a time, there were four little Haillenarte rabbits.

To be fair, though, really only one of them was actually undersized—eldest son Stephanivien was tall and strong, or at least he was when he bothered to stand up straight instead of hunch over his inventions. Second son Aurvael was a perfectly reasonable size too, sturdy enough for expeditions and adventures. And daughter Laniaitte was a fearsomely towering warrior. It was only the youngest of the lot, Francel, who’d count as runty—short, which was not helped at all by his long ears being lopped, and scrawny and bony, with a fluffy puff of a tail on his rear being the most substantial part of him. But still the lot of them were small enough to make a home with their Father and Mother in the roots of trees, in a respectable warren in the clear and bright part of the woodlands. It was really only mildly wild and woody, with a goodly number of gardens and farms around—so a very good place to be bunnies, all in all. But still the litter would be cautioned by their parents every time they went out for business: “Never, but never, go to the Dzemael gardens and hothouses. They are wicked beasts, and deceptive and miserly besides; I shouldn’t be surprised if one tried to dress and stuff and serve a trespasser on the dining room table!”

On this particular fine afternoon,Father and Mother Haillenarte set each of their children their tasks: The oldest ones were to gather firewood, and go to market for steel and leather, while Francel, sweet dear, if he were to get strawberries, raspberries, and cherries from a garden, that would be suitable work for him. So Stephanivien, Laniaitte, and Aurvael all went down the lane with the hedgerow full of blackberry bushes, happily picking and eating the biggest, ripest berries as they went about their work. But Francel turned the opposite direction from his siblings.

“It’s been blackberries all last week,” he groused, kicking some acorns down the path. “If I ever eat another one, it will be too soon.” With his siblings heading to the sunny markets, like good bunnies, Francel continued along the other way, which grew more overgrown as he walked it. Away from the towns, and good trees of straight logs and lumber, the path meandered towards the scattered cottage gardens, with their orchards of smaller, more conveniently-sized trees cutting the canopy low. Their boughs hung heavy with ripening fruit, just past garden walls and fences, but every one Francel passed today, their gates were closed, and nary an inviting sign along the path was to be seen. The plants, though, knew no such distinctions of market days or away-on-business, and displayed their fruit-laden vines and branches in a most provocative manner, culminating with a peach tree that had actually snaked a branch through the fence. Faced with this blushing bounty a mere fulm out of reach, Francel considered disregarding torn or soiled clothes and simply scaling that fence—but no, no: he would not be able to look the gardener in the eyes properly again if he simply stole from them. And if he was caught? He could surely count on a tanned hide for that!

But as the road refused to yield gardens open for legitimate business, Francel started to rethink that position. It was a warm day, getting warmer, and he was acutely aware that the longer and farther he wandered, the longer and farther he’d have to walk back, when the sun’d be at its peak and he’d be sweltering under long trousers and justaucorps. If, somewhere along this road, he found a _big_ garden, big enough that they’d not miss a rabbit’s share of food, and he left a fair amount of coins on the front step, or something like that—surely that would be a fair compromise, wouldn’t it? Francel took off his hat to fan himself with it as he considered this.

Then he turned a corner, and as the old Dzemael gardens and hothouses came into view, all doubt fled him. Beyond a crumbling, low stone wall, under a canopy of towering walnut trees, he could see the fogged-glass panels, framed both regularly by steel bars and irregularly by creeping vines—and past them, rows and rows of fruit trees, half losing blossoms, the other half already bearing fruit—and further on from that, just signs enough of frames and posts and cages to fire his already well-fueled imagination. If _anyone_ in all the forest had a garden big enough that he could take all he wanted—whatever he wanted—and leave his coins and not be noticed, it would have to be the owners of the Dzemael gardens. Francel didn’t hesitate a moment:he jammed his hat back onto his head and scaled the wall, using a pile of firewood against it as a jumping-off point.

And if the outside of the garden had been enticing, what Francel saw on the inside was exhilarating. The air was pressing, but not suffocating, full, but not saturated—perfectly sultry, with the hum of summer dragonflies the perfect accompaniment. The smell of both flower and fruit was everywhere, at precisely the point before it became cloying, before fermentation and intoxication. And what he’d hoped the berry-bush frames had hinted at were true beyond his hopes: raspberry bushes standing at almost shoulder-height, and skirting around them were strawberries with fruits nearly the size of apples. Suddenly the detail that he had been sent to _bring back_ fruit seemed insignificant in comparison to his empty belly, the thirst he’d worked up from walking in summer heat, and the sheer immediate _promise_ of food this good. There were some fruits, he knew, where there were only hours in their lives, in the season where they were truly worth eating—and even if none of them were summer fruits proper, well. The principle still stood, did it not? He could always find a basket or something after this most important matter was taken care of.

So, his position on his knees amongst the brambles now fully rationalized, Francel buried doubts under berry mountains. The raspberries were perfectly ripe, delicate between his fingers, so much so that simply rolling them between finger and thumb to remove the hair would bruise them—would, if any of them hadn’t been immediately eaten afterward. Red and purple began to stain his hands, his lips—and then, the strawberries. Francel had never seen strawberries so large before, the indents around the seeds like signs of the strain that the skin must have felt. Their tart-sweet flavor burst onto his tongue, juice running over his chin, his fingers, staining pink on his jacket’s lacy cuffs. It wasn’t long before he was all sticky—face, throat, fingers, and even bits of his clothes—and licking lips and sucking his fingers did nothing to alleviate that problem (enjoyable as it was). He could have stayed there—lounging secluded in the greenery like the strawberries hidden under their leaves—for hours. But the sun was nearing its zenith, and he wanted shade.

And so: trees. Cherry trees. Francel, already feeling rather too hedonistic to do anything so strenuous as climb anything now, ambled along the stand of cherry trees until he found the smallest one, where he’d barely have to hop to get handfuls of fruit. Dark red, perfectly rich—like a monk circling an image in veneration, Francel walked round that tree, grabbing cherries and spitting the pits to one side. But no devotion was eternal—too much sugar-sweetness left him thirsty, and his mouth and hands now looked like some lascivious painter’s mixing of reds. He needed something to drink, immediately, before anything else passed his lips.

Which—such a thing shouldn’t be a problem. Obviously, there’d be water in such a garden as this, and it would simply be a matter of finding it. In a haze of satisfaction, Francel ambled down the rows of plants, ears relaxed and puff-tail bobbing happily as he walked. A well, a stream—perhaps even a watering-can!—would do for him.

Except, before he found any one of those, he found the gardener.

At least twice his height, horned and hoofed, with his golden hair pulled back, off his neck in the heat, and a golden ring in his nose, the minotaur monster lounged under a big apple tree. He wore loose trousers, but his shirt was fully open, exposing his chest and toned belly to the breeze. In one hand, he held a garden spade, and his other held a sturdy mug, resting atop a great tun—as Francel watched, the minotaur refilled his mug, took a long drink—and then caught sight of him, frozen in place. A smile curved over his lips.

“Good afternoon, rabbit,” he said, slowly. “You look like you’ve been having a very good one, at least.” In the shade his handsome brown face was darkened even more, highlighting by contrast his sharp white teeth and sharp pale eyes.

Francel gulped. It was almost like a bucket of water had been thrown over him—but worse: that would’ve provided relief from the heat, at least a mouthful to drink, and cleaned off the evidence. Instead, he was left here, trying to control his blushing and trembling, with no relief from heat or thirst, and the red sticky juice all over his face and hands, as sure a sign of a crime as if it were blood.

“Speechless?” Oddly enough, the minotaur didn’t seem angry, even though he couldn’t have doubted that Francel had been raiding his garden—rather he studied him with interest, in a way that was almost… rapt? Covetous? …Hungry?

“No, ser,” Francel ventured, managing to tear his eyes away from the behemoth of a man long enough to cast a look at the big tun, dusted in apple blossoms. “Only thirsty.” Not that he expected the monster to give him a drink—but he did hope, however vainly, that it might turn the subject from what he’d been doing to the minotaur’s berry bushes.

And yet… “You like mead?” the minotaur asked. Hardly daring to believe his good luck, Francel nodded carefully. But the monster didn’t draw any from the barrel, only continued to grin with a sort of anticipated satisfaction. “Well. I like French rabbit.”

Francel’s brow knit; that seemed to be rather something of a non-sequitur, albeit a flattering one. “Well, thank you. I, er…” His gaze slid to the side, momentarily flustered, but almost involuntarily he sneaked quick glances at the thick arms and massive chest. “I suppose I like minotaurs…”

Now the monster’s smile had fangs. “Of course you do.” And he still hadn’t drawn any mead. And he was still looking at Francel like there had been a game he’d been playing, that Francel hadn’t been aware of, that the monster had already won.

…Did that make him the loser, or did it make him the prize?

“I’m Grinnaux,” the monster said, and Francel was so preoccupied by this new question that he almost didn’t hear him. “Grinnaux de Dzemael.”

“Francel,” he offered, half-automatically. Perhaps he should be heartened by the fact that they were exchanging introductions—after all, he was almost certain those who considered themselves victims of robbery didn’t introduce themselves to their robber, and that a wicked Dzemael wouldn’t introduce himself to someone he planned to dress and stuff and serve. …Though, that did leave open the question what exactly such a brute of a minotaur considered his relationship with a little rabbit in his garden to be…

“Very French,” Grinnaux said, in the same tone he’d made the remark about “French rabbit.” That couldn’t be coincidence. Francel now fixed him with an examining look, though the object of his gaze didn’t seem to think it worth acknowledging—instead filling the mug with mead once more, this time finally offering it to Francel.

“You keep mentioning that,” Francel said at last, as he took the mug and took a small sip from it and found it surprisingly… mead-like. He half expected it to be drugged, or poisoned, even though he’d been watching Grinnaux drink from the same barrel and the same vessel. Surely it would’ve been a convenient thing to blame for the butterflies in his stomach, though.

“I like a French rabbit just that much,” Grinnaux answered, with a bit of an affected drawl. His gaze flicked between Francel’s face and the surface of the drink; Francel could see how his throat moved as though he was swallowing.

“Even ones thieving in your garden?” Francel decided to finally cut to the chase, taking a drink from the mug (for if it was going to be a chase, he needed relief from thirst) but not taking his eyes off Grinnaux.

He laughed. “Now, that’s a rude word to use! Especially by a pretty littlething like you.”

Francel blinked, feeling suddenly disoriented in a way that had nothing to do with his drink. Shouldn’t _he_ have been the one using bravado to deny it was all that bad? Or trying to butter up the beast to escape with his skin intact? “I—well, it…”

Grinnaux waved his concerns aside, briefly licking his lips. “No, no—I know you and I can reach some kind of—” Now he was definitely swallowing as though his mouth was watering; Francel’s heart skipped a beat, “—arrangement.”

Very slowly, with his breaths long and deep, Francel said, “I have some money here, yes.” Grinnaux, however, was already shaking his head.

“Not like that,” he said as he tossed his hair back, over his horns. “French rabbit.”

Francel was aware of every breath and heartbeat, how his blood thrummed in his veins and how his clothes shifted against his skin with even the tiniest of motions. Warmth suffused him, in a way he couldn’t fully attribute to either the sun or the mead, and even though he knew the answer, still he asked, “What _about_  French rabbit?”

And now, Grinnaux was leaning in to leer at him, and his smile was crooked and fangs all pointed, eyes dark and pupils wide. “It’s delicious.”

Francel bolted.

Without any hesitation, he turned and ran. The mug was dropped as quickly as that conversation, and he was on the go, backtracking as much as he could, lop ears bouncing and white tail-fluff up. He didn’t think (running being, after all, the instinct of any rabbit), just focused on the greenery flying past him and the terrain before his feet. Behind him, Grinnaux had made a surprised sound—then, an excited bellowing, and the thudding of his hooves, increasing in pace. Taking a deep breath, Francel turned the corner of this row of melons at full speed, his hat flying off as he did.

He was quick, but so was Grinnaux—and he had the advantage of home territory, after all, while all Francel knew was the parts of the garden he’d already picked over. So he was taken aback by the sudden appearance of an expanse of tilled wet soil, black and sticky, and was already running into it before he could think to slow or turn aside. His shoes were squelching, and only a pace or two more before they were sticking. And behind him, Grinnaux was laughing.

With a great leap and two firm kicks, Francel sprung free—but his shoes he left behind, kicked off into the mud. He’d dirty his socks, but that was the last thing on his mind as he left the last partly-hoed rows of small vines and bushes behind, and headed into a neat stand of nut trees.

Now, Francel had a couple advantages over Grinnaux, if he wanted not to be caught. The minotaur had height, weight, reach, strength, and to be honest possibly could match him in a straight-line dash, or at least come close. But, Francel was lightweight, and nimble, and confident that no minotaur of Grinnaux’s dimensions could follow him up a tree. With a burst of speed, he made a few quick strides on the trunk of the closest tree (walnut, very old), putting him within reach of the lowest branch—and from there, it was back and forth between pulling himself up with his arms and pushing himself up to the next handhold, adrenaline and exhilaration fueling the pace. By the time Grinnaux’s crashing footsteps were directly beneath him, Francel was well out of his reach.

Red-faced from exertion, panting but smiling, Francel sat himself proudly and smugly atop a bough, enjoying looking down at Grinnaux. “It seems I have the advantage,” he called to him, his fuzzy-socked feet swaying. The advantage in what? That same game Grinnaux had been so sure he’d won earlier.

“You think so?” Grinnaux called up, his chest heaving but confidence unflagged. When Francel only smirked down with an over-acted nod, Grinnaux returned the expression. “We’ll see about that.”

Francel remained smug and certain. No way a man with hooves could climb a tree—no matter how strong his arms were. Grinnaux could grab hold of the trunk as hard as he could, he couldn’t haul himself up with just them.

And, well, he was right that minotaurs couldn’t climb trees. Unfortunately, they could very much shake them. Yelping in dismay, Francel clung to the trunk of the tree, as Grinnaux shook it so hard he was practically bouncing on that bough.

“Come on!” Grinnaux paused in his shaking long enough to shout up, “Come down and face me fairly!” Francel didn’t respond, by reason of needing to clench his jaw shut to keep his teeth from being shaken out of his mouth. In any event, Grinnaux went back to shaking the tree without waiting for a response, and all around him was a cacophony of disturbed leaves and groaning wood and his long ears bobbing every which way, and it might even be worth it, Francel dazedly thought, to fall out just to stop the shaking.

But it wouldn’t be worth conceding defeat, however. And, after one particularly loud snort of effort from Grinnaux, Francel had a plan. He let go of the tree trunk with his right hand (his left arm now gripping for dear life) to instead work loose the hooks and toggles holding both sides of his jacket together, and then began to wiggle free of it (here actually being aided by the shaking Grinnaux was doing). And, when he was just in his undershirt, his jacket hanging off his left forearm, Francel shouted down to Grinnaux, “Look up here!”

“Hunh?” And when the minotaur did, Francel’s jacket floated down over his head, snagging on his horns and covering his face. He roared with surprise and a bit of confusion, and as he tried to pull it off—Francel leapt down, landed with a little “Oof!” and made rabbit-tracks out of there.

The jacket, Francel knew, wouldn’t impede the minotaur for long—he ran straight through some squash on the vine and ducked into a little tool-shed near a little waterwheel, pushing himself up against the dusty wall. Sure enough, a moment later he heard a loud bellowing “Where are you?!”—a certain sign that Grinnaux had freed himself and discovered Francel gone.

Now, everything by Francel was still—no breeze rustled the inside of the shed, and it muffled the sound of birds and insects outside; the loudest thing that’d be heard here normally would be the waterwheel. However, a shouting minotaur was still so very easy to hear:

“Where are you, rabbit?” He wasn’t bellowing anymore, and the words were rather drawn out. “I know you’re still here. The gates are shut and barred.” Francel carefully managed his breathing—trying both to get his breath back and not to make too much noise—as he listened to the minotaur. “You won’t hide from me. All I have to do—” here he chuckled and the fact that obviously he was pitching it to be heard by the entire estate didn’t stop it from making Francel’s hair stand on end, “—is follow my nose. Like sniffing out any other tasty thing.” Grinnaux was stalking him, Francel realized—like a real monster, a real predator—and he shivered from the thrill of it.

“Don’t think the fruit can save you,” Grinnaux was still speaking, quieter (or was he closer?) but still pitched to intimidate. “Just makes you smell more delicious.” His tail quivering, Francel considered his options. With locked gates and himself marked with the smell of sweet drinks and sweet juices, likely Grinnaux wasn’t wrong about being able to track him down that way. He could let himself be found, and work from there. But then, if he could escape _completely_ , what a caper that’d be, to hold over Dzemael’s head…

Cautiously, he edged towards the door, trying to peer out without revealing himself, and see if he could spot Grinnaux. It’d be much easier to evade him if he knew where he was—but unfortunately, the confounded waterwheel blocked so much of his vision—

_Of course!_

Hurriedly toeing off his socks, and leaving them in the dust of the shed floor, Francel slipped out of the shed as quickly and quietly as he was able. Barely daring to breathe, he tip-toed to the bank of the stream. It was not large, and obviously an artificial bit of irrigation—but a monster’s garden stream was something a little rabbit could slip into easily—and, if he had any luck at all, then the drains at either end, under the wall, would be large enough for him to fit through.

The water was cold, he gasped and his skin goose-pimpled as he waded into it. But, noise would reveal him, as would ripples—as the water wicked up the fabric of his clothes, darkening them, sticking them to his flesh, he took a deep breath and lowered himself fully beneath the surface. His eyes he kept closed—all that mattered was getting to the end, and touch and current would be enough for that. In darkness, with sound distorted by water, Francel was left hyper-aware of touch as he propelled himself through the water, downstream, feeling his ears wave with the ripples, his undershirt alternately billowing and clinging, the drag of the water on his trousers… something very much like eyes on his back…

In a sudden flood of sight and sound and sensation, something large and loud gripped him by his loose shirt and bodily hauled him up out of the stream. Coughing, spluttering, kicking and blearily blinking, Francel twisted in his captor’s grip, trying to find his feet.

His clothes, soaked through, clung to him firmly, the shirt rendered transparent—his trousers retaining enough weight in water that they were beginning to slither down his hips. With the water out of his eyes, Francel’s vision cleared, the big brown blob in front of him resolving into Grinnaux’s grinning face, teeth gleaming as bright as his golden nose-ring.

“Fun chase,” Grinnaux said, with rather more of a leer than strictly necessary, “but it’s over now. I caught you.” The last sentence was said with enough ego that he might as well have said “I won.”

Francel pouted at Grinnaux, testing the hold the minotaur had on his shirt. “So then, you’ve _had_ your fun?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Grinnaux said with an affected shrug, tightening his grip on Francel’s shirt, to pull him up off the ground. “Besides, we never talked about… compensation.”

“What, winning isn’t enough for you?” Francel said, his innocent tone just as affected as Grinnaux’s innocent mannerisms.

“Never enough,” he growled, and leaned closer, “never, ever en—”

He was cut off by Francel suddenly grabbing hold of his nose-ring, as if Grinnaux were a common ox. He froze still, yelping when Francel gave it a testing tug. Gingerly, he lowered Francel’s feet to the ground, slowly bending over as he did—he didn’t want to pull on his poor nose any harder than necessary.

And Francel, for his part, when both his feet were on solid ground, he used the ring to tug Grinnaux’s face close enough to kiss his mouth.

At first, Grinnaux was unmoving—unresistant, but also unyielding—before the touch of his lips, then the tip of his tongue. Slowly, while he pushed his lips to the minotaur’s, he loosened his grip on the nose-ring, eventually letting go. And then, Grinnaux slightly parted his lips—when Francel pushed further, Grinnaux surged forward and pushed him down, mouth covering his.

On his back, long ears silky against his neck and shoulders, Francel reached up, wrapped his arms around Grinnaux’s neck. He had to crane his neck up a bit to kiss him best, and even so, the tips of Grinnaux’s horns dug little furrows in the earth on either side of his head. He was large enough above him that Francel was left in shadow—still wet, and growing chilly, he pushed himself as close to that warm body as he could, knees against and along Grinnaux’s ribs.

Neither of them were feeling particularly patient—Grinnaux shuddered when Francel pushed his clammy legs and chest to him, and his immediate response was to break the kiss to turn Francel over and peel off the offending wet shirt. His tongue followed up the dip over Francel’s spine as he pushed that shirt up and off, making him laugh with delight. As Francel dealt with the last bit (pulling it over his ears), Grinnaux turned his attention to Francel’s trousers.

“Nngh—can’t you flatten that tail?” He asked, then chuckled when Francel only wiggled it.

“Just—mm, just push it down a little…” Francel said as he pushed the sodden mess that was once an undershirt aside—arching his back and pulling his knees up, trying to get his rear in a good position.

“Cute arse,” Grinnaux said approvingly, when it was finally revealed. “Mmm… not sure I’ll fit, though…”

“Then—between—” Francel muttered, already reaching underneath himself to pull his half-hard cock fully out of his pants, and pump it to full erection (damn the cold stream water). He flicked his tail in what he hoped was an alluring manner and was rewarded by the sound of Grinnaux drawing breath in sharply, in realization.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grinnaux whispered, and behind him Francel heard the sounds of laces quickly being undone—then a thick, hot length laying over one buttock. “Mmmf, that kinda… soft…” Francel bounced on his knees, and Grinnaux laughed.

“Impatient little thing—” He rumbled as he bent over Francel, gripping his hip with his left hand and positioning his cock with his right, “—you could’ve just let me catch you earlier.”

Francel tilted his hips back and forth, then wiggled his tail, pleased with the weight spreading the cleft of his arse. “Come on, come on—” He said, squeezing his own cock—then felt his hand pushed away, and Grinnaux’s much larger one wrapping around him.

He was expecting Grinnaux to say something, to warn him or brace him—but no, he just started moving, his heavy cock sliding between his buttocks and over his downy tail, and his hand pulling at Francel’s cock.“Nngh—fuck, the _tail_ —” Grinnaux seemed enamoured of the novelty and Francel indulged him, twitching his tail and rocking back against him. “Good bunny,” Grinnaux said softly, squeezing his arse as he set a rhythm.

“Nnngh—” Francel moaned, forehead pressed into his folded arms. The heat against his arse and tail, and enveloping his cock—Grinnaux’s hand around his cock made a fine thing to fuck, his hips rocking in time with how the minotaur rutted against the cleft of his arse. The friction was at first… strange, but easy to acclimate to—and anyhow, he’d been more than adequately primed by the thrill of the hunt.

“Gods—” Grinnaux was speeding up; he’d been a hypocrite when calling Francel impatient, “Gods but—nngh, I _love_  French rabbit, so—so soft, sweet…” He was bent low over Francel, and the rabbit started in surprise to feel teeth along where his shoulder met his neck.

Francel matched Grinnaux’s pace, panting heavily as Grinnaux rhythmically tugged his cock in complement to his thrusting, ran the pad and then the hard smooth nail of his thumb up and down the underside. “Feels—nngh, it feels good—mm, you can be rougher, I won’t—” he gasped, a high and sharp sound, from the teeth moving from his neck to his ears, “—I won’t break!”

“Doubt that,” Grinnaux muttered in his ear—but not at all in a concerned way. Something wet was beginning to drip on Francel’s back—he groaned, and bucked back against him harder, knees starting to ache.

“Please—soon, I’ll be…” The sensation was overwhelming—the newness of position, the massive warmth and weight of his partner, and that remarkably dextrous hand, squeezing and stroking and damn near _milking—_ “Mmmgh, Grinnaux—!” It was only a few seconds later that Francel came, tensing taut before going lax, only held up by Grinnaux’s grip, liquid as the seed dripping between the minotaur’s fingers. His partner came only seconds later, Francel making a muffled sound at the splash over his back, running down his arse and sides.

“Urgh…” Grinnaux groaned, rolling onto his side and panting. “Such a good little… shame I’ll have to let you go.”

After a pause, Francel rolled over to face him. “You know—I need to get more fruit.” He smiled mischievously. “To bring home…”

* * *

 

 

“Francel! My goodness, Francel!” Laniaitte’s voice rang clearly through the evening air, the woman herself backlit-silhouetted in the door to the warren. “Where were you? We were worried sick!”

“Just getting fruit,” Francel called back, as he worked his way up the front walk.

“It took you all day?” Laniaitte sounded both curious and skeptical. “How much fruit did you—” She was cut off by Francel pulling an entire, overloaded handwagon into view, baskets and paper bags piled precariously into it and overflowing with plump berries and brilliant cherries.

“All that I wanted,” Francel said, beaming.


End file.
